To say Amiah was pissed would be the understatement of the century. As she sat on the cool metal bench, buttcheek firmly pressed against it on account of her short dress, she began to formulate a list of all the people she was pissed at and why.
Firstly, she was pissed at herself for not watching her drink more closely. Then, she was pissed at her friends for not watching her drink at all. Finally, she was pissed at the co-occupants of the nearly barren cement room for being likewise involved in this situation. The 20 by 10 foot room contained only a simple bench running the length of two sides, a door (locked) and a very public toilet. Aside from Amiah, there were three occupants:
The first, who had been there when Amiah woke, was a young asian punk who had spent the past four hours ranting about how the fascist government was locking them up for- well, he never quite got to the actual reason. Third to join the party was a portly, middle-aged man who was sweating rather obscenely and kept glancing at the toilet. And then there was the teenage girl in a soccer uniform who seemed to be suffering from a bad case of the flu.
Rolling her eyes for the umpteenth time in as many hours, Amiah crossed her legs and tapped her metal-tipped stiletto against the floor. Although the sound enraged her, she didn't stop tapping until the teenager started making garbled groaning noises.
"She'd better not throw up," Amiah leaned forward to glare at her past the punk.
"Better hope the fuckin' toilet works then," he shot back in response. He placed his hand on the girl's back, but before he could get out a 'are you okay', the girl whipped around with a screech and sank her teeth into his neck.
The room filled with the sound of screaming. Amiah scrambled back, ending up next to the sweating man. Any sort of anger she had felt towards him was now replaced with the camaraderie that occurs between two people witnessing a terrifying event. The punk and teen fell to the floor- the carnal sounds of chewing flesh and crunching bone soon overpowered his screams. The sweating man, eyes glued to the gruesome sight, clutched his chest.
"Hey man," Amiah grabbed his shoulders, "You can't just dip out on me right now-"
But it was too late. The man was dead. His poor, sweaty heart couldn't handle all the excitement. The last, rattling breath left his body.
And drew the attention of the cannibalistic soccer star.
The two women made eye contact. The younger snarled viciously, blood covering the lower half of her face. The other screamed. The teen charged, reaching claws outstretched. Amiah continued screaming, squeezing her eyes shut and firing off a kick. When she opened her eyes, she realized she had successfully knocked her attacker to the ground. Never one to pass up an opportunity, Amiah ripped off one of her stilettos and proceeded to smash the heel into the girl's face until it resembled one worthy of Picasso.
Her artistic career was short-lived, however. Just as she wound back, shoe high in the air, the door opened. A tall, blond man clad in all black stepped in and surveyed the situation, one pale eyebrow raised. His gaze- hidden by a pair of sunglasses- finally came to rest on Amiah.
"Congratulations, Miss Johnson," he spoke in a flat, nasally monotone, "You passed."